THE BED'S TOO BIG/THE FRYING PAN'S TOO WIDE

But when he’s gone

Me and them lonesome blues collide

The bed’s too big

The frying pan’s too wide.

           

              -   Joni Mitchell

  

In the post I wrote a week after my husband's passing, I confessed that I wasn’t ready to say much about being a widow.  It still feels raw and new, but now that a month has passed, I feel ready to share a bit about my experience of widowhood so far.  Once again, I write to sort and process my thoughts. I appreciate your patience with my ramblings – I intend to turn to other subjects soon.

Often, when I awake, I step outside, where I spend some time in the peace of my garden.  One morning, after I had done some watering and weeding, I looked down at my grubby clothes and thought, These are my morning clothes. I quickly noted the pun.  They were, in fact, my mourning clothes.

I continue to suffer from “widow’s brain.”  One day, I stood staring into a cupboard for a long time, before pulling out a mug and making myself a cup of tea.  After carrying it to kitchen table, I discovered the cup that I had already made.  Another day, I broke a glass while putting it in the dishwasher, a simple task that had never confounded me before.  A few days ago, I bought a bag of cat food and left it in the cart when I loaded my other groceries into the car. And then there was the day when I found myself stymied by the thought of preparing food for myself.  I had to call a couple of friends to ask what I should keep on hand in order to make simple meals.

I am having dreams about getting lost on complex staircases or losing my way in the city – my psyche must be attempting to figure out the path ahead.

I am discovering that grief is physical. The night after Bill died, I slept like a rock and woke up exhausted and feeling as if I had been beaten about the head and neck with a two-by-four. Of course, there was exhaustion after the intensity and physical and emotional toll of his final few weeks, but the fatigue has lingered. The nights of good sleep ended after about a week, and now I sleep poorly more-often-than-not. It doesn’t matter how I sleep, though.  Even after a good night, I wake up tired. 

There was relief at first.  Relief that he had left his weary body behind.  Relief that his sons and I would no longer be getting up in the night to administer medications.  Relief that the limbo of the dying process was over. In truth, the life I had been living with Bill had become more memory than reality over the months before his death, as he slept more and more hours each day and had less and less energy for interaction.

So, for a while, I thought I was doing pretty well.  I had some crying jags, but not too many. I started in on the mounds of paperwork attendant to a death.  I spent time with friends and family. I told myself I was OK.

And then, maybe three weeks in, my days became a lot more challenging. Here’s the thing -- I like spending time alone. When Bill would occasionally go away for a few days, I would relish having the house to myself.  But, after two or three days, I would be ready for him to come home.  Now, as time passes, it is becoming more and more real to me that he will not be coming home.  He hasn’t gone to the store.  He hasn’t taken a short trip.  I am repeatedly startled to realize that this is my life now, that I will be moving forward without him. Again, it's not that I mind being alone; it’s that I miss him in all of his particularity. I miss the man he was and the life we shared before his illness took over. 

My tears are flowing more freely now, as I look around and find:

He’s not here to hold me.

He's not here to talk with me.

He's not here to comfort me when I'm upset.

He’s not here to read my writing drafts. (I very nearly got up from my desk to ask him to read over his obituary.)

He’s not here to tell me I am pretty, that I look nice.  (Yes, after twenty years of marriage, he said such things to me almost daily.)

He’s not here to read to the grandkids.

He’s not here to work in the garden with me. 

He’s not here to eat dinner with me. 

He’s not here to hold my hand while we watch TV.

He’s not here to take out the garbage.

He’s not here to answer my phone calls and texts when I’m out.  

He’s not here to drive me crazy.  

Are you surprised by that last one?  Look, he was a gentle, steady, generous guy, but just because he has died, doesn’t mean I have to pretend he was perfect.  He was not.  And neither am I.  So, like most marriages, ours wasn’t perfect.  My speedy Jersey ways would bump up against his midwestern deliberation. I am impatient.  (He was patient with my impatience, bless him.) He was a pack rat. Getting rid of things makes me feel lighter; it made him feel anxious. Still, through it all, whatever our challenges, we loved each other deeply and shared a long-lasting attraction, as well as values and an ever-widening family. We chose each other and were never tempted to quit one other.  

Last Christmas, instead of exchanging gifts, we each wrote a letter to the other.  I keep re-reading his.  He closed it with these words:  “You are the pole against which I lean and I love you dearly.”  And, of course, he was the pole against which I leaned. To mix metaphors a bit, I feel untethered, like I might just float away.  Or to employ yet another metaphor, I have lost my tap root.  Of course, I am fortunate that I have family and friends to tether and root me, to keep me from floating away.  Still, I miss my main tether, my tap root, and expect I always will.

                                    Photo by Allison Saeng for Unsplash

(I cannot close this post without expressing my gratitude for the kindness I have experienced. The friends who have spent time with me.  The friends and family who have called and sent notes and cards.  The friend who helped me to clear out an entire room. The one who carted off medical supplies when I could not think through where to donate them and the one who took away a pile of rags that I didn't want to toss in the garbage -- she even found somewhere to donate those. My daughters and a son-in-law, who moved furniture for me.  Bill's sons and a son-in-law who have kept the lawn mowed. The dear fellow whom I occasionally hire to help with the garden, who refused to let me pay him for the work he did soon after Bill died. The manager of Bill's dentist's office, who, when I called to report Bill's death, told me she had seen his obituary and had written off the balance on his account.  I am sure there is more that I am forgetting.  Recounting all of this moves me to tears.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

  

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

    And sorry I could not travel both

    And be one traveler, long I stood

    And looked down one as far as I could

    To where it bent in the undergrowth;

    Then took the other, as just as fair,

    And having perhaps the better claim,

    Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

   

    * * * * *

    Oh, I kept the first for another day!

    Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

    I doubted if I should ever come back.

* * * * *

                                    - Robert Frost

            A while back, I was talking with an old friend on the phone when she mentioned that one of the characters on a popular TV show looked like me.  I was flattered, but puzzled.  Why was she seeing me in an actress over 30 years my junior?

         And then it dawned on me – my friend, who lives 3000 miles from me, still pictures me as I was not just 30 years, but, if truth be told, 40 years ago.  Sure, we have seen each other every couple of years since I moved away from New Jersey, the place where our friendship began, but her enduring image of me is apparently carried forth from the few years in our late teens and early twenties when we developed our friendship and shared our lives. 

         I miss her.   

         I am well aware of all that I gained by moving to the Pacific Northwest over 40 years ago.  The benefits have been varied and many.   I live in an area of unmatched natural beauty.  I met my husband here, as well as the former husband who is the father of my fabulous daughters, and this was a great place to raise those daughters. I have developed deep and life-affirming friendships.  In truth, I believe that, for a number of reasons that I need not go into here, I had to move away to grow into my authentic self. 

         And yet.

         And yet, as I grow older I begin to understand that my decision to move so far away from where I started was not without cost.  Certainly when I moved west at age 25, I was not, in Frost’s words, “sorry I could not travel both.”  I was ready to move far away.  It is also true that, although I did not leave with the idea of staying forever—it was only going to be for a few years while I went to school, I have never gone back, except to visit. 

         Yesterday, while listening to Carole King’s song, So Far Away, I thought to myself, Isn't that the truth?  No one stays in one place anymore. Then it occurred to me that I had no cause to complain, given that it was I, not my friends or family, who had moved so far away.  My temporary move west had somehow turned into a lifetime as I put down roots, made friends, and learned to love this place.

         And so, 40 years on, I pause to contemplate what I left behind.  There is family, of course—my brothers live in New Jersey and Florida.  And then there are the handful of east-coast friends who remain dear to me, despite my seeing them only infrequently.  For a long time, the distance did not feel terribly daunting.  There were visits and, in the early days, letters and infrequent phone calls, and then, with the advent of cell phones, more frequent phone calls, and, most recently, Skype and Facetime talks.  As the years pass, though, I feel the distance more keenly.  I realized during my last two trips east, where years of updates were packed into days, what a loss it has been not to have had these friends and family members close by as I have made way through adulthood.  And it also crossed my mind that the day will come when long plane trips will become more difficult or even impossible.    

         So this has been the cost of the move that has otherwise been good for me in every way -- my geographical distance from family and friends.  My older brother is the only living person who has known me since I was born, and he and my younger brother are the only living people who shared my family of origin with me.  No one else has those memories—both good and bad.  

         And then there is the loss of proximity to my oldest friends.  The one who has known me since we were seven.  The one I have known since junior high.  The ones I met in my late teens and early 20s.  Some of my current friends have known me for a very long time.  These are the friends with whom I shared my entry into adulthood, the childrearing years, the working years, and with whom I will share whatever it is that lies ahead.  If I had not moved west, these friends would not grace my life.  I love them, and cannot imagine my life without these friendships.

         Still, we do not replace friends, we just add to them.  As the years have passed I have come to value those who knew me when I was a girl and a very young adult.  We shared the years when everything lay ahead of us, the years of riding bikes around the neighborhood and talking about boys, the years when everything looked shiny and new.  We shared the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Beatles, the Kennedy assassinations and the moon landing.  And for the continued sharing of that history with friends so far away, I am forever grateful.  

         So, thank you to the friend who was able to see the long-ago me in a young actress.  And thank you to all of the friends, both old and new, who have seen, and continue to see, me through. 

         I am truly blessed. 

THE TOP TEN THINGS I LEARNED AT THE ASSISTED-LIVING FACILITY

My mother spent the last 12 years of her life in an assisted-living center not far from my house.  During this time, I spent many, many hours in this building.  Here are the top ten things that I learned from observing, and interacting with, my mom and other residents.    

10.      Everybody has a story. 

            Even those, or especially those, whose lives look diminished and sad have stories to tell.   Ask for these stories.  You will learn that the storyteller’s life was not always so small and that she likely lived a very full and interesting life.  My mom’s assisted-living facility published a weekly flyer that frequently included the biography of a resident.  It was humbling to be reminded that these people had lived long and fulfilling lives before their need for care.        

9.        If you want to know how to approach an elderly person, watch how kids and pets do it.   

            If you want to give an elderly person a treat, bring a dog or a kid to visit him.  Then watch what happens.   A dog will not feel awkward around an elderly person’s disabilities, and generally speaking, neither will a small child.  My mom spent the last 10 days of her life in an adult foster home because she was too ill to stay in assisted living.  It was wonderful to see the delight on her face when the owner’s children would prance into the room and dance for her. 

8.        Start getting rid of your stuff.   

            If you are over, say, 55 or 60, start looking at your possessions with a cold eye.  If you live to be very old, the time will come when you can no longer take care of or use all of that stuff.  And, if you have had to go through a parent’s stuff after they pass, you will know what a burden you are creating for those you will leave behind.  As Roz Chast says in Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, her wonderful memoir of her parents’ last years, once you have gone through and sorted your parents’ stuff, you start to look at your stuff “a little more postmortemistically.”  So, organize your photos.  Take on a room every year and get rid of what you no longer use or enjoy.  And then start over again.  Not only will you be doing your kids, or whoever is left to pick up the pieces, a favor, but not having to take care of so much stuff will free you up to do what you really want to do with the years left to you.  (Unless, of course, taking care of your stuff is how you want to spend the years left to you.)

7.        Keep moving. 

            No, not your residence, your body.  Here is the bottom line, people.  If we don’t keep moving as we get older, we will stop being able to move.  And then everything will go downhill really fast.  So walk.  Or swim.  Take a yoga class.  Stay limber. Get out of your chairs.  Move your body.  Every day.      

6.        Keep your balance.

            Of course we want to be balanced in mind and spirit, but I am speaking here of physical balance.  Old people fall.  A lot.  So, don’t wait until you are really old to work on your balance.  Stand on one foot at a time for a while every day.  If you want a little more challenge, do the yoga tree pose every day.  Take a tai chi or qi gong class.  Of course, if we live to be very old, we will probably fall, but I like to think that working on our balance before then will forestall that day. 

5.        Make younger friends.

            By the last few years of her life, all of my mother’s friends had pre-deceased her.  This is a very lonely business.  So, don’t put all of your relationship eggs in one generational basket.  Cultivate younger friends.  If you are lucky, maybe they will visit you in your dotage. 

4.        Learn to enjoy your own company. 

            Here is the sad truth.  Most of the people who lived at my mother’s assisted living center rarely had visitors.  Even if you have family nearby and even if they visit you when they can, if you live to be very old and your friends pre-decease you, you will probably end up spending a lot of time alone.   So, if you don’t enjoy your own company, make it a priority to cultivate alone time, and figure out what to do with it.

3.        If you are an unhappy, self-absorbed adult, you will be an             unhappy, self-absorbed elderly person. 

            Any one who has cared for an elderly or very sick relative knows that we continue to be ourselves, only more so, as we grow older or sicker.  So, if you have unattractive qualities, you might want to work on those now.   In this way, you might be more likely to keep those family members and friends coming around.      

2.        Show up.

            If you have a friend or family member who is ill or frail, show up for them.  Be generous with your time to the extent that you have any to give.  Your loved one likely can’t remember what it felt like to have a job and a family and multiple calls on her time.  She just knows that she feels very alone.  Although we can’t picture it now, the time is likely to come when we are the ones who long for a visitor.     

1.               Practice kindness and patience and the gentle art of listening.

            These are the most important gifts that we can give to someone whose health is failing.  (OK, they are the most important gifts that we can give to anyone.)  And they are sometimes not easy gifts to give when our loved one is moving and talking slowly or repeating the same stories over and over again.   I wish I could say that I was always patient with my mother.  I was not.  Here are two things that I did find to be helpful:  (1)  Ask about something that you are interested in, (see lesson No. 1 above), then be silent and listen.  I would sometimes ask my mother to tell me about her girlhood or her experiences during WWII.  Not only did this cut off her oft-repeated stories about old TV shows, but now that she is gone, I am so glad that I asked these questions.   In fact, I wish that I had asked more; (2)  When you run out of patience and the ability to be kind, take a few days off to look away and do whatever you need to do to restore your ability to be present with patience and kindness.  This may help you to ward off burn-out and keep you from becoming one of those persons who never shows up.      

Of course, all of these lessons are aspirational.   May we all do our best to take them to heart. 

Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash

           

WHAT WOULD THE DALAI LAMA DO?

            My mother is 93 years old. For the last 11 years she has lived about a mile from me in an assisted-living center.  For the first 8 or 9 years she did very well, taking the bus provided by the assisted-living center to stores and doctor appointments, enjoying books and crossword puzzles and outings with family.  

            And then things began to change.  Over the last couple of years there has been a rapid downhill slide. Her eyesight and hearing are failing.  She is in constant pain, and becomes frailer and more confused each day.  Outings exhaust her.  As her world becomes smaller and smaller, she has few pleasures left.  In fact, she states emphatically that she would like to slip away in her sleep.  

            So what does this have to do with the Dalai Lama?  Here’s where I need to talk about my role in my mother’s life.  During her early years in assisted living, I called her every day and took her out once a week.  Now, I visit her several times a week, write checks for her, do her laundry and shop for personal items.   She can no longer go to a doctor appointment without a family member to keep track of what is going on.  She calls me most days—sometimes more than once—to ask me what day it is or what time it is.  In short, I am now among her caregivers.   Fortunately for me, I am not alone.  One of my brothers handles her finances from the east coast.  My husband helps out with appointments and errands, and my ex husband (bless him) steps up again and again, visiting her and taking her to appointments.      

            So, with all this help, what’s my problem?  It's just this:  Help notwithstanding, on any given day I may feel tired or grumpy or sad or helpless or perhaps several or all of the above.   When I visit my mom, I am never sure who will greet me.  Will it be happy-to-see-me, grateful mom or will it be unhappy, critical, impossible-to-satisfy mom?  Of course, it is true that she has plenty of reasons to be unhappy.  See paragraph two above.  Still, I confess that there are days when my patience is thin, thinner than I would like.   There are days when I don’t want to stop on my way home from work after a long commute.   Days when I don’t want to navigate a confusing conversation in which I am likely to be blamed for the confusion.  And on days when I am happy to be there, when I feel honored and pleased to be able to tend to her, my heart breaks over her frailty and over her isolation.  It must be terrifying to wake up from a nap and not know what day it is or whether it is time to eat or to get ready for bed.   And then there is the sad fact that every person of her generation who ever mattered to her has passed.  And she wants to be with them.    

            So how can I be my best self with her?  What, I asked myself recently (changing the bumper sticker slightly) would the Dalai Lama do?  Or the Buddha?  Or, to return to the bumper sticker, Jesus?  Here’s the funny thing.  Although I have a pretty good idea what they would say about love and compassion and doing unto others and doing unto the least of these, I have no idea what they would do.  None of them, to my knowledge, ever played the role of caregiver to a sick or elderly family member.  We don’t know if Jesus had a wife or children, but we do know that by the time he began his ministry, he had no family in tow.  The Buddha left his wife and child when he went off to seek enlightenment, and, as far as I know, did not return to check on them.  The Dalai Lama was removed from his family as a child.  If he has put in stint as the caregiver of a family member, I have not heard about it.  

            So, although I revere these enlightened beings and try (with occasional and very modest success) to live by their teachings, they are of no help to me as role models in my current situation.  Where do I look?  I look to my friends.  I look to the friend who drives two hours every week to spend the night with her elderly parents, who organizes caregivers, and jumps in her car whenever one of her parents takes a turn for the worse.  I look to another friend who flies to Boston from her Oregon home every three months to spend two weeks relieving her sister, who tends to their mother the rest of the time.  I look to the friend who saw two children through bouts of mental illness.  I look to my sister-in-law’s sister to who gets up every morning and tends to her severely disabled son.  And I look to parents everywhere (including myself many years ago) who walk the floor with their crying infants when they would love to be sleeping in their beds.

            What do these people have in common?  They show up.  They show up when they are tired.  They show up when they are grumpy.   They show up with as much good cheer as they can, and when they run out of steam and cheer, they continue to show up.  They try not to lose it too often and to forgive themselves when they do.   They are my heroes.  Their strength gives me courage.

            So, I will go to hear the Dalai Lama when he comes to town next month, but I will look to the ordinary mortals who deal with mortgages and food shopping and finances and sick family members and crying children for my role models.  Thank you all – you know who you are - for being with me on the path, for laughing and crying with me during the hard times, and for helping me to find my way.